fragilekeys

USELESS SECRETS

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The enigma will not dissipate, the secret will not be communicated. Or perhaps there are no “secrets,” if we persist in thinking of them as propositional, or as having some content to convey. Because if that were the case, we’d have to say: nothing’s hidden, nothing’s in secret.

But what’s transmitted or shared in secret is that the secret is only “in” the transmission, “in” the sharing the moment the edifice cracks, when the whole communication falls to pieces. The secret “is” the surprise of itself. The surprising newness, at each event, of being.

There’s no secret to such a transmission. No secret transmitted. The secret is simply about the transmission. It can’t be transmitted or shared; it can’t be translated. It is it. And so it lives on… Continue reading →

CONFESSION

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Speak the inner human: no more flesh but the soulflesh, a resonant body, a word, tapped into one another almost, also an empty nothing — and nearly dying of it. And then, later, really dying of it– ecstatically.

But everything about dying here contradicts. Premonitions deceive. Painful truths, perhaps, for the eternity-bound: this one life is not separate from its deceit, because, rushed there, one never quite gets there. There’s no truth to this death I can never “be”; and yet it carries me off as if I, in spite of it all, were death myself (all of it?)… as if I could feel everyone’s share of it because I could never feel it… as if I was everyone’s sharing its deceit.

As if I myself were carrying you to the precipitous I-am-not-yet-“dead,” as who you are. The “evidence” for such an opening is machined out in nonsensical articulations. And yet here I stand, justly sensed, with you (even from way over there!).

Already our existence is “verified”: your pain is worthy of you. It opens up what it needs to, outside all “necessity,” and is freedom, even if helpless. It gives consent to everything you do with your earnest share, even if abandoned. In pain, where we and the world dissolve into nothing, we’re already sharing each other, we already have something of the naked truth.

A painful confession: the splintering effect of being an absolute fragment, thrown across time and space, between bodies, nearly exhausted– but not dead. Continue reading →

ELSEWHERE

If I write, it’s only to take revenge on myself and upon every “truth” I’ve happened upon, every position I’ve taken in my life. If I write, it’s to reaffirm that the truth lies elsewhere.

I’ll write to admit the insurmountable inanity of any search for the truth, to attest to my vagabond hopelessness. I’ve tried out the systems, climbed the heights, seen it all at its flaring point of incandescence and logic and inspiration time and time again– only to “decline”, only to descend back into the chaos my optimistic climb and communication feigned to absolve. To attest to my root heart– cynical and human– to fall into chaos yet again: there’s my folly, my life, my destiny.

Indeed, what evidence could I give to the void in me whose plenitude is rich enough to annihilate me and the whole of history along with it– in order that I myself might be alive? If redemption be tied to a sense of this void, to the fleeting passage of some nothing, some passion outstripping all temporal existence from within it, then the only way to accede to its remarkableness is to concede that everything having to do with it, everything that would articulate it, ends in disappointment, embarrassment, and deceit. There is only the active passage, coming from elsewhere, that suspends us. Continue reading →